


Fair Play

by reconditarmonia



Category: Original Work
Genre: Duelling, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2019, Historical, Pastiche, Snark, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-29 02:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17799074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reconditarmonia/pseuds/reconditarmonia
Summary: "I can hardly blame Madame d'E— if she does not wish to duel me herself, but how extraordinarily quaint and countrified that she should send a professional."





	Fair Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gileonnen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/gifts).



> Happy Chocolate Box -- I hope you enjoy this treat!

The opera's almost enough to put one to sleep. Marquise What-d'ye-call-her believes her faith betrayed by Princesse So-and-so, and — it is too tedious even to relate. I lack even the consolation of a charming young thing beside me in the box to bear the infernal torment with me. And indeed it's hot as the fires of hell in the opera house, rapidly melting my ice in its little china cup into a lemon and fennel-scented slush. In the box across from me, I can see Madame T— and Madame de Q—, who at this juncture in the opera would typically be grubbling in each other's skirts, dozing against each other as Madame T—'s fan slips from her hand.

I'm jolted out of my warm haze by a loud triple knock on the door of my box, before the door's flying open immediately precipitates the entry of Madame d'E— in person. Madame d'E— does not, of course, actually till the soil of her own country estates, but one could be forgiven for making the error. Tonight perhaps she has spilt something on herself, as it seems a kind-hearted actress must have given her the use of a theatrical costume from the reign of the last queen. The fabric under her arms and bosom is conspicuously darkened with sweat. "Daviat," she booms. "Rise! Rise, libertine!"

I was considering leaving the box for a breath of fresh air — at this point in the opera, the Marquise's servants are singing some sort of patriotic chorus interpolated since the peace — but I can hardly budge now. "I find I'm comfortable where I am," I reply, sprawling insouciantly lower down in my chair and looking over my shoulder at her. "Join me? I'm in want of a companion tonight." Across the way, I catch sight of Madame de Q— shaking herself awake and fumbling for her opera glasses. 

Madame d'E— sputters, withdraws a kid glove from her bosom, and, approaching the edge of the box, flings the glove with great force onto my knees, where it slides off to fall at my feet. I don't think this was the effect she hoped to create. "I am calling you out, Daviat! You have offended my wife, and you must answer for it tomorrow on the field of honor."

If anyone is offended, it is myself, to find my reputation as a duelist so slightly regarded. "Offended? Dear me — is she not contented with the attentions I have rendered her? I must commend you, madame, on your liberality and wifely care in carrying me this message, and will remedy this defect at once." I reach down to pick up the glove and examine it, then stand to offer it back to her. "You are a credit to your marriage, and I shall meet you how and where you please."

Rosemalc, my friend, calls on me in her shay the next morning to accompany me to Prophets' Park, at the edge of the city. Madame d'E— had better at least show me a good time for rousing me so early, though as we arrive at the park, I can see that the heat of the day already has the night's rain rising in a thick steam from the grass, as though we were stepping fully dressed into an Eastern bath. Nor is Rosemalc thrilled to be called out of her mistress's bed. Consideration of the latter's charms and generosity, and of those of Madame d'E—'s wife, continues to occupy our conversation as we drive through the lanes, saluting those few persons of quality who are up and about. I cannot confess myself greatly devoted to the delights of nature, but here at least one is away from the stink of the streets; perhaps others are of like mind.

As we come around the hill towards the appointed spot, I spy two figures there on the lawn beneath the chestnut trees. Good for Madame d'E— to have found a friend. Then, alighting from the shay, I realize that neither is, in fact, Madame d'E—. One is a woman of about Madame d'E—'s age whom I recall seeing in the foyer as the opera let out last night, absorbed in Court talk with three or four other women. I do not think I tax my fancy overmuch in wondering if Madame d'E— recruited the first person she could find upon leaving my box. The other, a woman dressed more plainly than I might have expected even from a servant of Madame d'E—'s, but equipped with a sword like a gentlewoman, I do not recognize at all.

Madame Foyer makes an elegant, expansive courtesy to both Rosemalc and myself, sweeping off her hat, which we answer in turn; Madame Plain holds herself erect, eyes fixed beyond us as she inclines her head and sketches out a bow with her arm.

"Where is Madame d'E—?" asks Rosemalc.

"I stand here for her," answers Madame Plain. "Rina Salevi, private of the Dauphine's infantry."

"Salevi is Madame d'E—'s proxy," explains Madame Foyer. "She will see to it that honor is satisfied."

All at once the full absurdity of the present circumstances strikes me like a thunder-clap. I can hardly blame Madame d'E— if she does not wish to duel me herself, but how extraordinarily quaint and countrified that she should send a professional, as though any woman of gallantry in the city should think of abandoning her suit to Madame d'E—'s wife were she to lose. Madame d'E— could have come herself this morning, gone through the formalities of defending her marital prerogative, and all would have continued as before with her honor intact. Now she will be the laughingstock of the city, and become a new type for a play overnight. I can scarce keep from laughing; it is only to spare the feelings of Madame Salevi that I do not. After all, I fancy she fights wherever she is ordered. 

Rosemalc mistakes my expression. "My principal would be within her rights to treat this as an insult," she begins.

"No, no, I am not insulted. I am fascinated," I interrupt. 

"If you cannot induce your principal to an apology—"

If Madame Foyer believes me daunted by this change of adversary, she is mistaken. "Never. Let us fight so that Madame Salevi may earn her keep. To suggest that I would pluck bread from the mouth of an honest soldier — why, madame, that would be slander."

Madame Salevi nods; I like to imagine I catch a smile flitting across her lips. "Madame d'E— doesn't pay me to intimidate anyone. I don't bark — I bite."

Taking a few steps away from the party, I draw my sword, which I had my servant attend to last night after returning from the opera until the steel edge would cut a hair. Madame Salevi draws her own and takes up a stance opposite me, and Rosemalc calls for the duel to begin.

I open with a flourish worthy of the stage, twirling my sword easily in butterfly-wings before my body. Madame Salevi's eyes stay on me — she won't be fooled with tricks. Against the expectations I had upon arising in the morning, I think I'm going to enjoy this.

We make a few passes back and forth, easily parried thrusts that might catch a silly fop off her guard, that have won me duels before. I don't truly expect a soldier to prove so quick to defeat. I suspect, however, that she underestimates me as her employer did, and I shan't forbear to press an advantage when I see one, so I jump forward and lunge to reach my blade around her guard in a move that she must needs skip away to avoid if she can.

To my surprise, Madame Salevi digs her boots into the grass and bats my sword down with her own, holding the blade against her other hand. When she responds with an attack to my head, bearing down against the sword I interpose just in time, I realize suddenly that she is accustomed to a heavier sword than the little dueling sword she has now; to duels where something will change if she wins or loses.

And she could win, I think as the duel continues and I begin to feel my breath come hot and my blood in my ears and throat. It is the first time I have had such a thought in years of this daily round of the opera and the gaming-table and the coffee-house and the bedchamber and the dueling-ground. No ounce of her strength or inch of her reach is wasted, and I find myself dispensing with the showy displays with which it is my custom to confound my foes and astonish their wives. I cannot imagine but that she has killed women in the war, where no courtesy will let a combatant take out a handkerchief to wipe her brow of the sweat that threatens to drip into her eyes, and it is not the first blood but the last that matters. On the field of honor she will not knock a woman's knees from under her or heave her full weight against another, as she might on the field of battle, but as we lock swords close, I fancy I can feel the restraint in her body reverberating through the steel in our hands. The thought only induces me to attack with more force, and Madame Salevi answers me in kind.

At last, I spy an opening, and slide my blade through to rest its point at her throat, only to find her own sword's point next to my cheek. Looking at her down the length of my blade, I stand and catch my breath; so must she, I am gratified to notice. I wonder why she does not press her advantage; she cannot imagine that I would end the fight in this way.

Scarce knowing what moves me to do so, I tilt my head to the side. Madame Salevi's sword is so sharp that I barely feel it cut my cheek. First blood. Madame Salevi stands surprised for a moment, then lowers her sword. I remember all at once that Madame d'E—'s second is there, as she hastens over to us to confirm the sight of red on the blade. "Honor is satisfied," she proclaims, clapping Madame Salevi on the shoulder.

I expect the soldier to walk away, her task accomplished, and report her victory to Madame d'E—, but she asks me a question that assures me, in a rush, that we have been of the same mind: even now the duel is over, she is able to catch me off my guard once more. "But are you?"


End file.
